


Mutual Solace

by Zeke Black (istia)



Series: Rare Pairs [5]
Category: Hell on Wheels (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s01e05 Bread and Circuses, First Time, M/M, Old West, POV Mickey McGinnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 10:53:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/istia/pseuds/Zeke%20Black
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey walks a fine line trying to patch things with Cullen in an episode tag to <em>Bread and Circuses</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mutual Solace

He'd expected pitch-blackness when he stumbled out of his warm nest to the piss pot in the corner, but the dingy tent walls were glowing like they'd been sprinkled with fairy dust. Even shivering as he was when he shook his cock dry and tucked it away, he was drawn to the flap, peering out and up at a gibbous moon hanging high overhead, bright as a misshapen lantern. The oddity of seeing a sight so familiar in a place this alien caught him unawares again. Staring up like he was watching his own private Magic Lantern show, he could almost hear the voices of Ma and the boys back home and feel the warm fug of the house and the twitch in his nose from the smoke of burning peat on the hearth.

He blinked his eyes back down to cold, dark reality with a wry smile, but he was mostly awake then, mind restless with the same worries that'd kept him staring at the tent roof for a whole mother-loving hour when he'd first slid under the blankets.

Sean with his fistful of money thought everything would be fine now. He wished he could be that certain, too, but he couldn't shake his uneasiness. Sean's breezy confidence didn't convince him of anything but impending disaster.

Giving up on sleep for now, he pulled on his clothes and shoved his feet into his shoes, quiet as a mouse as Sean slept the peaceful sleep of the successful cheat. Sean's quiet, familiar snuffling faded as he stepped through the tent flap into the dark mudpit of a street. He darted a quick look around for danger, but even the whores' and saloon tents on either side were dark and still. He stepped onto the nearest plank laid over the mud and swung his arms as he walked till his limbs warmed up, then shoved his hands into his pockets, weaving through the tents at a slow amble. Movement always helped him put his thoughts together. He'd spent years slipping out into the night, away from Sean asleep; from their shared bed at home, then the pallet beside his on the ship and the tiny room in Chicago, now their tent here.

The night noises in this place were familiar by now, too: snores and coughs and the occasional loud fart from the clustered tents; the fainter sound of crickets, and the eerie distant hooting of an owl after prey in the forest to the north. The smells of piss and shit mingled with the mud and the fainter but pervasive scent of dirty canvas.

Sean thought being able to pay the Swede and get their show up-and-running again, with a bit extra to send to Ma, was all they needed to make their world right for full-steam ahead. And Sean was the smart one, for sure--with reading and figuring and planning, he'd always known that, just like everybody who met them reckoned it in no time.

He'd been following Sean's lead all their lives, his twelve toes following Sean's eight to make them whole.

The sky caught his eye again and he set his feet apart to balance on the unsteady plank as he gazed up. If the sky over Gleneally was God's upended bowl, as Gran used to say, the sky here was God's bloody great tureen. He hadn't tired yet of seeing its sheer reach over his head, his eye following its vastness to the dark, spiky blob of the Rocky Mountains in the distant west. A thrum of excitement made him smile in the dark. He bounced a little at just knowing he'd be there when they blasted and hacked and ploughed a way through those towering piles of rock to reach an even more mysterious new land beyond. That's where Sean was leading them: to this place, aye, to the rail camp's movement and power and opportunity, but eventually, ultimately, to the wonders and possibilities of the land beyond that great spine of mountains.

But reaching that grand new world wasn't a sure thing. The journey was full of danger even for him and Sean, who didn't have to actually break their backs cutting a way through those tons of rock, using dynamite and laying steel to create that road they needed. His eyes fell back down to the stinkhole around him and he moved on, frowning, steps slowing. This place was full of danger for everyone, not just the men handling the dynamite and pickaxes, and half of it came from the mass of people jostling against each other, each one drawn here to try to do the best for himself.

Feeling less driven now, he was about to turn back to the cold blankets in his present home when a light caught his eyes and he paused. Mr. Bohannon's tent, that was, set a little apart from the rest. As foreman, he had the tent to himself, a rare luxury, but it meant he'd be alone.

A weight seemed to drop from his shoulders and he sighed long and low at that sign Mr. Bohannon had got himself home all right. He'd left Bohannon lying bloody and exhausted on the saloon's plank floor, the loser abandoned in the makeshift fight ring. Truth be told, he'd forgotten about Bohannon for a spell. Sean'd disturbed him that much, flashing the wad of money he'd made for them and not caring a tick he'd done it by betraying their only friend here.

Sean'd felt nothing but satisfaction at fixing their current problem, and even lying awake an hour as Sean slept peaceful as a man straight out of confession hadn't made his uneasiness settle or taken away the sour taste in his mouth.

He was moving towards the tent before even realising it. With nothing to knock on, he called softly; when he got no answer, he pushed the flaps aside and poked his head in. Bohannon was sprawled on a cot against the far wall, loose-limbed as a rag doll. One arm was dangling off the edge, like he'd just flopped there and passed out. He was still naked from the waist up with a blanket tangled around his trousered legs. He looked damned uncomfortable.

And maybe a bit of guilt mixed with the stab of want in his gut to make him step inside and let the flaps fall closed behind him. A candle stub was guttering, about to drown in its own pool of wax, but there was enough light to pick his way across the tent. He nudged aside a bucket of dirty water with a blood-stained rag draped over its rim and was leaning over the bed when the distinctive click of a pistol made him freeze. Bohannon squinted one eye open and stared up at him. They stayed still as statues for a long moment, then Bohannon sighed.

"Mick." He lifted his right hand from the shadowed far side of his body, and uncocked the gun before reaching to try to set it on the crate beside the bed.

He grimaced, though, and Mickey leaned forward.

"Here, let me."

Bohannon released the gun to him and Mickey laid it on the crate, carefully turning the barrel so it wasn't pointing at either of them. He turned back to survey Bohannon, who was still staring up at him. The flickering light made Bohannon look even more ghoulish than he probably otherwise would have.

"D'you feel half as bad as you look, then? That big buck didn't break anything, did he?"

Bohannon's eye closed and his cut lips quirked in a tiny smile. "Nah, I'm all right."

Mickey shook his head. "You'll be sore as a virgin in a cathouse tomorrow, I'll tell you that for nothing."

Bohannon's chuckle ended in a groan and he pressed a hand to his bruised side. Mickey pursed his lips and turned smartly away, ducking out of the tent and back the way he'd come; all purpose now, no meandering to enjoy the quiet stretch of God's hand in the heavens. He sneaked into their tent, dug out the little pot Gran gave them as a leave-taking, and left again without Sean more than turning over in his sleep. Bohannon's eyes were shut when he returned, but he opened his working one, which followed Mickey as he lit a bigger candle stub, then grabbed a stool from across the tent and plopped down on it beside the cot to open Gran's pot. They hadn't had to use any yet; breaking the wax seal filled his nose with the scent of home. Blessed Mary help him.

"For fuck's sake, what the hell is that?" Bohannon pressed himself into the cot like an extra inch of distance would make a difference.

Mickey cocked his head. "Now, this is our Gran's own making, from an old recipe she got from her Gran and on down a long line of Grans probably back to Eve herself." He put two fingertips into the pot and pulled out a greasy glob that quivered in the lamplight like a big wet bubble of snot.

"Yeah, some Irish crone's horse liniment's all I need to complete my day." Bohannon lifted a hand. "Thanks for the thought and all, but I'll pass."

Mickey grinned. "Well, you could surely use it on horses, but that'd be a mortal waste." He sobered and leaned closer. "It smells a bit rank, maybe, but it'll help, honestly. Let me--"

Bohannon caught his wrist in a grip that'd likely leave bruises, with two eyes open now, sharp as barbed wire. Mickey met them straight on and stayed still. After a long moment of silence vast as the sky, he smiled like he would to a cowering dog and pitched his voice low and easy.

"Honest Injun, as they say in the city. It'll warm your muscles, keep 'em from seizing up in the night. At the least, it'll help you get out of bed tomorrow without falling on your face and breaking your nose." He tilted his head. "Which I have to say would pretty much complete the hash Elam's already made of your fine looks."

The grip on his wrist loosened a tad; Mickey didn't try to pull away, but he relaxed into playfulness. "I mean, look at me. I've used this ointment a deal of times and you can't deny I've a good few less scars than you."

Bohannon let go of him with a laugh and reached for the pot, the laugh turning into another grimace. "All right, can't hurt more'n I already am, I reckon. Hand it over."

He lifted the pot out of reach. "Let me."

"What?"

"I'm used to putting it on Sean, not to mention me other four brothers. It'll be quicker, and I can reach the spots you'd have to strain to get to."

He took Bohannon's limp, watchful silence as agreement and set to work rubbing the ointment into the muscles it'd do the most good on. Bohannon's breathing quickened for a moment before evening out again.

"Why do you care?"

He glanced up, then back down to watch his hands gliding over Bohannon's chest; the feel of the smooth, hard flesh under his hands was oddly familiar already after sluicing water over Bohannon during the fight, wiping blood away and rubbing warmth into his tightening muscles. He managed a smile, hoping none of his strain showed, trying to keep his hands loose and unrevealing.

"You're our friend. Our only friend here, as I told Sean tonight." He frowned in a moment of painful thought. "Or last night, I suppose it was. After the fight, that is. You've been good to us." He took a breath and looked up to meet Bohannon's straight gaze. "Sean--"

Bohannon lifted his eyebrows in the silence as he stumbled to a stop. Mickey warred with himself, then plunged down the path, because, for the life of him, he couldn't see any other way. Not if he and Sean hoped to reach that fabled land beyond the mountains strong and well.

Leaving his greasy hand splayed against the centre of Bohannon's chest, he looked up to hold Bohannon's eyes.

"You didn't so much lose the fight, Mr. Bohannon, as you had it...taken away."

"Really." Bohannon's drawl was more pronounced than usual; Mickey wondered what that meant while trying not to flinch.

"Aye. Sean--" He sighed and tried again. "Everyone was betting on you, see, so Sean put all our money on the buck instead. The Swede's been threatening us because we couldn't pay--"

"Damn! So what you're saying is Elam didn't think up that pepper trick on his own?"

"Well, uh, no? At least, I'm pretty sure not. Sean--"

Bohannon's head fell back on the pillow and he let out a loud guffaw before groaning and putting a hand gingerly to his ribs. A little breathless, he said, "Looks like I was giving Elam more credit than he deserved." He looked outright amused, the contrary bastard.

Mildly alarmed, Mickey soldiered on. "So, I'm that sorry about it, but it's not really Sean's fault. He's used to having to scrabble for every penny we could get. We thought we'd left the landlords and their scrounging ways behind us, but then the Swede come to us and--"

Bohannon'd lost his smile and was looking straight at him again, his face unreadable.

"I get the picture." He sighed. "It's all right; I ain't gonna shoot him."

Bohannon looked sober, but he heard a hint of amusement in Bohannon's voice and let the tension seep out of his tight neck. He studied Bohannon, just to be sure, but his battered face was strangely relaxed. Mickey nodded, letting himself become aware of the warmth rising between their bodies and the pools of heat under his hands still resting on Bohannon's chest. He flicked his eyes down to study his fingers lying long and pale against Bohannon's skin.

The old itch rose in him, unbidden but tantalising as the lure of streets of gold; the desire to ride that edge of danger that Sean got from foxing people in scams, but Mickey found in...closer interactions. He lifted one hand to reach again for the salve. A waste of their little store of it, using more than needed, but he couldn't just stop now and go away. He didn't have the will to walk away from this open flame. Not yet.

Bohannon's voice drew his eyes up with a jerk. "Why'd you tell me? Sean must've known I'd just reckon it was Elam."

"Sean don't know I'm here. He'll be--" his hand holding the pot jiggled as he struggled and failed to find a suitable word "--annoyed, if he finds out. Or," he added, " _when_ he finds out." Because somehow, strangely, Sean tended to get wind of whatever Mickey did without him; even the blackest part of the night never seemed to be enough of a curtain.

Bohannon's eyes were still demanding an answer, so he drew a breath and let it out slowly. "Like I said, Mr. Bohannon, you've been good to us. You're our friend. It didn't seem right, you not knowing what Sean did, and why. Because it's not that Sean's mean, just that we were stuck in a hard place. The show hasn't been bringing in much money lately, then the Swede knocked our tent down--"

"Yeah, okay. We all do what we have to do."

Relief flooded him at the finality in Bohannon's voice and he smiled, feeling wide and free and wild as the grand Atlantic they'd crossed. He leaned forward, the heat drawing him, acutely aware of Bohannon's heart beating under his hand; he pressed harder to absorb that beat through his skin. He let himself smile straight into Bohannon's narrowed eyes; just a moment's snatched thrill before he'd pull away and return to his own tent....

But Bohannon, eyes still locked with his, spoke again, drawl deepened and voice gritty with more than tiredness. "So maybe you can make it up to me."

All in a moment, Mickey had the measure of it and laughed, as low and knowing as Bohannon's voice. "Well, I did bring you Gran's liniment."

Bohannon closed his eyes, breaking the moment, retreating plain as if he were tying his tent flaps together. "That you did."

Mickey moved his hand, watching the stroke of his fingers over Bohannon's left nipple, already tightened by his rubbing with the liniment, but becoming a hard nub under his thumb. When he looked up, Bohannon's eyes were gleaming slits.

Mickey smiled into them. "So, a little mutual solace, then? For two souls wandering the wilderness, as it were."

Bohannon's lips twitched, but he didn't move away from the slow game of circle-and-press Mickey pursued with Bohannon's nipples and the base of his throat and the thin line of hair leading down beneath the blanket, tracing a careful path away from Bohannon's ribs and between the worst of the bruising.

"I dunno about 'mutual'; I thought you were gonna make things up to me. Since I'm the injured party here and all. And that ain't even counting the way I'll have to put up with Elam and his crew gloating about his win in the morning."

Mickey didn't hold back any of the heat in his slanted look at Bohannon while leaning over to dump the pot and blow out the candle. "And make it up to you I will for sure, Mr. Bohannon. For all my brother's sins and maybe a few of my own, for good measure. And it'll be mutual solace, I promise you, whether you intend it or not."

The dark made the breathlessness in Bohannon's voice seem loud as a trumpet. "You might want to call me Cullen at some point."

Mickey laughed a near-silent puff of air against Bohannon's sweaty neck just to feel him shiver, while pushing the blanket out of the way. "That I might."

He mouthed the fast-beating pulse in Bohannon's neck and trailed his mouth up to his ear, running his tongue around the rim. Bohannon had at least found enough energy to wash away most of the blood and grime from the fight before collapsing on his cot, and the taste of sweat left behind was fine, the finest...what was that tenpenny word Sean'd shown off once? Something to do with some wanton pagan--

He lifted his head to stare down, hand cupped around Bohannon's hardening cock in his trousers. "D'you know that word, the one that comes from some heathen goddess name of Afrodity or somesuch?"

Bohannon's hand stilled against his shoulder. "What the hell?" Bohannon's eyes, lit with the moonlight, blinked into darkness for a moment before staring up at him again. "You mean aphrodisiac?"

He grinned. "Aye, that's it! Sean used it once, see, about a fine whisky we had a chance to sample, and the taste of your sweat made me think of it."

Bohannon groaned and his eyes winked out of sight. "Fuck, Mick!" And his hand grabbed Mickey's neck and pulled him down till their lips met.

Then it was all heat and wet between them; and four grabbing hands tangling with each other and parting and meeting again; and both of them making more sweat rubbing against each other to slick their way. Bohannon pulled at Mickey's clothes till he got rid of them and Mickey dragged Bohannon's trousers and drawers off till Mickey was lying pressed skin-to-skin down onto Bohannon. They had just enough room to move against each other--carefully, with Mickey doing most of the work because Bohannon's breath kept catching if he moved the wrong way--as their cocks hardened between them, Bohannon's stabbing him in the belly as his must be doing to Bohannon in return.

Because of course it was mutual; he exulted, in the one corner of his brain not otherwise occupied, at having read it right. And this was his reward: a quiet, dark, gasping time as their hands learned the rhythm of helping each along and their mouths learned the taste of each other and they buried groans in the hard, sharp planes of each other's shoulders. He loved the beauty of this dance, where he met a body that was like his own, yet also a land as unknown and beckoning as the distant California laid out for him to map and explore.

He slid down to take Bohannon's cock into his mouth. They moved together with the sureness of a train on its track, falling into a rhythm of give-and-take so they didn't dump themselves off the cot while never losing touch with each other. As he pressed a firm hand against Bohannon's hip to keep him from hurting himself, Bohannon stilled beneath him and lay back, damming away whatever noises he wanted to make. Bohannon's hand stroked into Mickey's hair and cupped his head, then remained there, a warm, occasionally trembling, connection that never faltered.

Bohannon's cock tasted better than pure malt, because he'd been parched for it, for the feel of this weight in his mouth, the sourness of the leaking fluid coating his tongue. Sean had never understood this part of Mickey; tried to pretend it didn't exist at all, except when he was forced to face it. Sean loved the differences he found being with a woman, but while Mickey had no trouble grasping that appeal, Sean couldn't see the excitement in the opposite. The pleasure of peeling away a cloak of sameness to find the contrasts beneath completely eluded Sean.

"It's a mortal sin!" he'd yelled, years ago, the first time he'd stumbled on Mickey's secret.

And, aye, of course it was. He knew that; he'd heard as many sermons as Sean had. But so was sleeping with a whore--or any woman outside of holy wedlock, according to the fathers. He couldn't for the life of him see how sharing a bunk with a willing man was a graver sin than fucking a woman who did it only for money, and that much of the time only because she had no other way to feed herself, and maybe her family, too.

It'd be best for both of them if Sean didn't find out this time, not after they'd had to leave Chicago like thieves in the night. Safest if no one at all found out, of course, but he wouldn't worry about that. Bohannon had as much to lose as he did if anyone ever suspected the truth, and Bohannon was a friend. He trusted Bohannon not to throw him to the wolves despite Sean's betrayal.

That was the other thing Sean didn't understand. Sean was the smart one, no doubt, with figures and words and schemes, but he wasn't smart with people, at least not the way Mickey was. He suspected Sean had never figured out that's why they worked so well together. That what Mickey brought to their partnership was their Ma's own knack of reading deep into people.

They needed Bohannon's good will if they were going to make it through those mountains to the vast green lands of opportunity beyond. Needed Bohannon's friendship at least as much as they needed the money Sean'd cheated Bohannon to get for them.

Bohannon's hand on his head gripped for a moment, then relaxed to lie strong and warm and still again. Bohannon was trembling all over now, his stomach muscles under Mickey's hand tight with control, not letting himself buck or push. Protecting his ribs, but Mickey was sure that wasn't the only reason he was holding himself back.

"Watch out!" Bohannon pushed clumsily at Mickey's shoulder.

He ignored the warning and sucked harder, lifting himself for a better angle while tightening his hand around Bohannon's balls, thrilled when Bohannon's warm hand on his head followed his movement rather than falling away. He sucked until Bohannon finally let himself go with a muffled groan, mingling Mickey's name with a stream of colourful words that would've had Father Dominic glowering. Mickey swallowed Bohannon's fluid, welcoming it, but already feeling the ebbing of pleasure.

Damned unfair how it was always over so soon. He rested his cheek against Bohannon's thigh, feeling the tremor in it, and rubbed his thumb over Bohannon's sharp hip bone, the slow movement soothing him as much as Bohannon.

Bohannon rested for a minute, then moved his hand from Mickey's head, but only to pull at his arm till he was lying on his side facing Bohannon again. Bohannon took Mickey's jaw in a light grip and looked at him, then ran his thumb along Mickey's mouth, gathering a drop of fluid. Holding his eyes, Bohannon pressed his thumb into his own mouth, then leaned forward, lips opening under Mickey's. Bohannon's tongue probed inside, maybe for more of the taste of himself; or maybe for a taste of Mickey alongside it. As lights sparked behind Mickey's closed eyes, Bohannon ran his hand slowly down Mickey's throat, flattened it against his chest, then moved it down, and down, a strong, sure warmth trailing over his belly to finally wrap hard around his aching cock.

"I reckon it's mutual after all." Bohannon quirked a grin at him to go with the whispered words, then ducked down in another dance of balancing on the cot to take Mickey's cock into his mouth.

"Cullen, fuck," he breathed as he came, and pulled Bohannon up to bury his face against Bohannon's shoulder and bite, just lightly, just to place a faint mark amongst the bruises and cuts of the fight, as he rode through the trembling till his muscles relaxed.

They lay tangled together for a time. Not a long time; the moon was a bright enough glow on the tent roof that he could track its movement. But it seemed sinfully long, lying naked, sharing the cover of Bohannon's ratty blanket. Holding Bohannon's hard body close against him, feeling as much of Bohannon's sweat drying on his skin as his own while the two of them were equally warm, equally relaxed.

Until he felt the tell-tale tightening of Bohannon's muscles, the restless twitch of a leg away from his, and he pushed himself up before he could be pushed away. He pulled on his clothes, picking them up from the dirty ground and shaking them well first, under Bohannon's hooded watchfulness. Bohannon stretched carefully on the cot, settling himself in the centre, biting back a groan so it came out a barely heard grunt.

When he was dressed, he reached for Gran's salve and slipped it into his pocket, then looked straight at Bohannon. Bohannon gave him a slow smile.

"At least you've ended up smelling as bad as I do. You'll have some explaining to do to Sean."

Bohannon was a smart one, too. He kept that measure always in his head, just as he did with Sean. He couldn't see any meanness in Bohannon's smile, though; just that straight watchfulness.

"Icy water at the pump will take care of that." He grimaced, and Bohannon laughed.

"That it will. So, you've paid Sean's debt. No need to worry about it anymore. We're even, Mick."

He nodded and went to the entrance, but turned to look back at Bohannon, who with the few feet between them now was just a gleam of eyes and pale skin in the far corner, already seeming too distant to touch. A chill that had nothing to do with the night air roughened his skin. Outside, it was still silent, people throughout the camp in the exhausted sleep that follows hours of hard work, hard drink, and hard sex. He nodded again, with a little shrug.

"I did do it partly for Sean." He smiled slowly. "But you should know, Cullen, if we do it again, it won't have a single blessed thing to do with my brother."

He held his breath, almost certain.... But while he might not be the smart one, he wasn't a complete fool. The possibility of danger was a good part of the draw, after all, even when it led to them having to skedaddle from places like Chicago. Sean couldn't understand the rest of the appeal at all, but he understood that bit, which was the part that made his face redden and his hands curl into helpless fists.

The moment seemed to stretch before Bohannon's soft drawl broke the silence. "Is that right?"

He couldn't see Bohannon's smile, but he could hear it in his voice.

"Oh, aye." He doubted Bohannon could see his smile either, but he couldn't hold it back, anyway. "I can promise I'll be completely alone...next time."

Bohannon's husky chuckle made him shiver in a wholly different way. "I'll keep that in mind."

With a wave, Mickey ducked out into the cold armpit of the night, carrying a secret ball of warmth inside. He walked to his tent through streets of mud shining like silver ribbons in the moonlight.


End file.
